Crimes of Jack: Piracy
by FreedomOftheSeas
Summary: A young Jack Sparrow must decide whether the prize for the delivering of fresh, human cargo can outweigh his moral center. Young Jack/Young Cutler Beckett.


**A/N**: Written for the "Crimes of Jack" challenge on Livejournal. There were 15 crimes read at Jack's hanging, and I took crime number one: _Piracy_.

Enjoy :)

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_**The Crimes of Jack: Piracy**_

---

He always thought that the falling of water droplets made the air cool and calm, never understanding how the rain slowly caused every one else around him to rush to a safe place in order to save themselves from the drizzle. He pulled his hat over his eyes, watching as women rushed to their roofs to take their clothes down, attempting to save them from getting wet. The wind stirred up a haze of dust as gray clouds smothered a bird filled sky; rain drops sang a gloomy melody with no one to welcome, and no one to hear. The streets were the homes of little boys and girls, soaking wet, dancing within the blissful melodies of the rain.

England was filled with people with frowns on their faces, wrinkled with age from obvious dissatisfaction with life, but they continued on in haste through the crowded street, searching for their own safe haven. Then came the heavy rains, and he was able to roam freely through the streets as he pleased. He reached his destination just when he began to feel nature's touch of freedom upon his skin.

Three knocks upon a wooden door prompted a man in black to harken to his call, and he didn't look pleased to do so.

He greeted the man with a small bow, following him down a long corridor to a finely furnished office toward the manor's west wing.

The squeak of his wet leather boots upon the manor's finely polished floor caused the man at the desk to look up. He smiled, greeting the man as he stood from his seat.

"Jonathan Edward Teague. Come in. How goes it?"

"Very well, Mr. Beckett, and yourself?"

"Infinitely better, now that you've arrived. Sit, sit," he said, ushering him to a seat in front of his desk.

Jonathan removed his hat, letting his dark, wet locks tumble down behind his ears. "Thank you, sir," he said sheepishly.

"Are you enjoying London, Mr. Teague?" he asked, motioning for the man in black. "Mr. Mercer, fetch him a cup of tea, will you?"

"It's quite alright. No need-"

"No, no, I must insist. Please sit, we have matters of great importance to discuss at moment. Do you know why you're here?"

"I've been informed that you'd like to employ my services in the shipping of cargo from Durban, sir."

He dipped his quill within a small black inkwell, and began signing a series of documents on his desk. "Correct, Mr. Teague. In light of my father's absence, I have been placed in charge of ensuring that the Company's dealings go smoothly until his return."

"I wish your father a speedy return to good health, Mr. Beckett."

Beckett leaned back in his chair, enjoying the great comforts of power. "As do I," he replied evenly, rising from his seat to position himself in front of a rather large globe that spun idly beside his desk.

Beckett cleared his throat. "It seems that I have stumbled upon a most valuable, yet overlooked market within the past months – a market that requires the shipment of vast amounts of cargo, which must be delivered with the interest of time in mind. It is not the first time, nor the last time we've had cargo of this nature, but as you might have been able to deduce, the amount of time to ensure that this cargo is still _fresh_, is a precious variable."

_Fresh?_

"I'm in a need of a captain that I can count on to take the responsibility of ensuring a reliable transaction," Beckett concluded.

Jonathan licked his lips; it was an honor for any man to serve as a captain of the East India Trading Company, and to fly their colors high atop his ship's mast. How could he refuse such a task?

"Then, I am your man, sir," Jonathan said, shifting in his seat. "What sort of cargo will I be transporting that requires it to be fresh, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm not at liberty to divulge such information. The owner has requested to keep the finer details out of the arrangement and out of conversation, and is paying us very handsomely to do so," he said, lowering his voice as Mercer returned with Jonathan's tea. "Now, there is a pressing need to have this cargo in Port Royal, Jamaica in three months time."

He took the tea graciously. "Thank you," he said softly, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the brewed herbs. He never really fancied tea. "Sir, I will be most obliged to ship it within two months, if it puts your mind at ease, but only on one condition."

The man looked down at him with a small smile. "And what would that be, Mr. Teague?"

"On the condition that I will make the journey on my ship, for she is the faster and I will be able to make better time with her than with an East Indiaman."

"The _Wicked Wench_, Mr. Teague? That's hardly the image the Company wishes to portray…"

"Be that as it may, every man builds his world in his own image. I have built her in my image and have the power to choose, but no power to escape the necessity of choice. I guarantee to you a speedy shipment that could possibly result in a return client and ally to the Company, as it were. Do we have an accord?"

Beckett paused for a moment, signing the last document in his pile. "Very well, then. I will send word out to our investors, informing them that their shipment will be on the docks of Port Royal, Jamaica within two months time. By doing so you shall be rewarded with five hundred pounds to divvy up amongst you and your crew. Do I make myself clear?"

"Of course," he said, grimacing as he took a small sip of his tea, reminding himself as to why he never really fancied the drink in the first place.

"Too strong, Mr. Teague?" he asked, noticing his discomfort.

"Nay, I've been accustomed to much stronger."

---

Two weeks brought him to Durban, a small coastal town along hot African shores, and two more days gave him his last view of it, which was universally called the hell of Africa and seemed designed, in every way, for the wear and tear of sailors. Not even his last view could bring out one feeling of regret for leaving the place.

He averted his eyes to the ground as the vessel left the sandy shores in the distance. For hours he had walked over stones with burdens in his head, which he carried up the town's steep, muddy hill and along the duckings of its surf. The long days and longer nights he passed on the town's desolate hill, watching as lines of darkly colored men were being forced within the bowels of his ship.

As he bade goodbye to each successive place, he felt as though one link after another were struck from the chain of his servitude. Having kept close to shore for the land-breeze, he passed the mission of Cape Town the same night, and saw distinctly, by the bright moonlight, the hill which he had gone down by a pair of halyards in search of his ship's _cargo_. He took his last look of the place, feeling as though he saw things more clearly.

_Slaves. _

He was far too naïve to realize that the demand for slave labor had increased substantially along with European colonial expansion in the New World; rising prices made the slave trade increasingly lucrative. Beckett was eager to augment his treasuries and even preyed upon his own people by manipulating the English judicial system, condemning individuals and their families to slavery in order to reap the rewards of the Company's sales to European traders.

Beckett sought to earn profit at the cost of human life, and he should have seen it coming.

'_One last port_,' he thought, slapping his palm lightly on the ship's rail.

Six weeks, or two months, of the hardest work he had yet seen, was before him and all he could think of doing was making port.

"Captain," a voice called from behind, "I've come to finish the writings in the logbook, sir."

"Mr. Ferrer, we must alter course, we are in great need of making port before we arrive at Port Royal."

"The cargo has been scheduled to arrive in Jamaica within the next six weeks, Captain. I don't see how we have time to make port again."

"Now, young man, we cannot deliver such valuable cargo in this _condition_," he began, holding a handkerchief over his nose as to indicate a harsh stench around the hatchway. "I'd presume that the receivers of said cargo would want their money's worth, would they not?"

Over the hatchway stood a ferocious-looking man with a blight of many twisted knots in his hands. Whenever he heard the slightest noise below, he shook it over them and seemed eager to exercise its force. Jonathan would have been pleased to take the weapon out of his hands for instilling in him a horrid memorial of reality; Jonathan would never be disposed to forget the scenes of violence he had witnessed over the past two days.

"I suppose. Although, I'd wager _they're_ not worth half as much," the young sailor said impassively, closing his logbook.

"Indeed," he muttered, venturing toward the stairs that would lead him below deck.

"Captain, I don't suggest that you go below decks as of yet, the crew has not finished cleaning _them_ up. Perhaps, it would be better if we finished logging-"

"I won't be long, Mr. Ferrer," Jonathan said, narrowing his brow as he took a deep breath of fresh sea air before making his decent.

He wished his eyes were deceiving him, watching on as men, women and children were packed into every available space, denied adequate room, food or breathing space. The stench that flowed into his nostrils was appalling and the environment was inhumane, to say the least. As soon as the poor creatures saw him looking down at them, their dark and melancholy visages seemed to have brightened up as if they perceived something of sympathy and kindness in his dark eyes. It was a look which they were certainly not accustomed to.

Recent knowledge of disease spread along the vessel, and it was not surprising that they had endured much sickness and loss of life in their short passage. Sometimes, one of the slaves was dragged up on deck for work, and his companion was a dead body sometimes of the three attached to the same chain, one was dying and another two were dead. Many killed one another in the hopes of procuring room to breathe; men strangled those next to them, and women viciously drove their nails into each other's faces and scalp. He was reminded of how each day; he and his crew would toss countless dead bodies overboard, attempting to alleviate the space problem below decks, but to no avail.

He could no longer bear the sight, feeling a harsh and unrelenting nausea burning within the pit of his stomach as he hurried up the steps to join Mr. Ferrer. He hoped with all his spirit that finishing his logbook would even his mind while easing the reoccurring nightmares he would surely have.

---

Within the next few weeks they were under the high point of Saint Domingue. The morning tide swiftly took them in, and they came about opposite of the small beach and prepared to get everything in trim for their stay. Saint Domingue was their last port. There they were to discharge everything from the ship, clean her out, smoke her, and take in the cargo, wood, and water. Once all this was finished, they'd set sail for a two day journey to Port Royal.

He had picked a good berth in the stream with a good smooth beach opposite for a landing-place, and it was within two cables length of proper shade along with a small trail that led to a fresh water pond where the slaves could bathe. They moored the ship, furling their sails and sent down the topgallent yards and all the studding-sail booms, along with housing the topgallent masts.

The boats were then heaved out, and all the sails, spare spars, the stores, the rigging not rove, and everything else which was not in daily use, was sent ashore and stored away beneath a shaded area.

Jonathan had placed himself in charge of rounding the slaves up, and escorting them to the fresh water pond, though one could say that he had other plans in mind.

Before they had reached the pond, he had unshackled each group of three, and had given them the liberty of moving around freely. After enjoying the unusual luxury of air and movement, the slaves finally saw the fresh water pond come into sight; it was then that the extent of their suffering was exposed. They all rushed toward it, and nothing could restrain them; they struggled and fought with one another for a drop of this precious liquid as if they grew rabid at the sight of it.

He swallowed hard as he watched the condition of each individual deteriorate before his eyes, noticing that their numbers had greatly diminished. The more days he spent at sea, the more deaths among his cargo. The shackles around their ankles had apparently caused countless cuts and bruises as they moved below decks.

He moved toward them in silence, averting his eyes to the ground at the sight of their malnourished and disfigured faces – a sight that was not worth five hundred pounds or even five hundred thousand pounds.

He cleared his throat, which frightened them, but it was not his intention. "No, no! I'm not going to harm you."

His words were accompanied by the same brightened visage he saw several weeks prior, realizing that they might find him as an ally instead of an executioner.

"Run," he whispered, flicking his hands at the crowd, but they still did not understand. "You're all free to go. Run, before they come searching for us!"

He faced a sea of blank stares.

"Here, I'll bloody show you!" he yelled, propelling his legs forward with all his might. He lost himself within the moment as he grabbed the arms of several slaves as he ran passed them. He was finally doing the right thing, and came as a great relief to his soul.

"Come on, follow me!"

They did, and rejoiced in doing so. The women were all particularly excited, holding up their arms while attempting to grab him as he ran by; they could not contain their delight. The people endeavored to scramble up on their knees, stretching out to catch him as they ran after him, because they understood that he had come to liberate them.

---

"The prisoner as ordered, sir," Mercer announced, pushing the young man into the west wing office.

"Jonathan Edward Teague," said a menacing, yet monotone voice. It came from a man who stood firmly with his back turned to the young prisoner.

"Jack Sparrow," the prisoner corrected.

"Jack Sparrow, is it?" he asked, delicately sipping a small cup of tea. His form was that of a true gentleman, but for all that knew him, Cutler Beckett was no gentleman. "Very well."

The young prisoner stood tall, head held high at the sound of his name, shoulders square, and hair considerably longer than the last time the two had their dealings. His wrists were tightly shackled; palms and forehead glistening with a thin film of sweat as he shifted uncomfortably in his tarnished uniform.

"I must say, I am not impressed with your spies. It has taken you two years to find me."

"Where was he found, Mr. Mercer?" Beckett asked, ignoring Jack's statement.

"He was found frequenting the island of Tortuga, pick pocketing the local residents and accompanied by a known pirate, Joshamee Gibbs, who was discharged some months ago for dishonorable dealings with pirates."

"Ah. A very noble occupation, indeed. You know, I had great hopes for you Mr. Sparrow," Beckett began, gently placing his cup of tea down upon his desk as he slowly made his way toward Jack.

"_Captain_," he corrected once more.

"So you were," Beckett sneered. "Cruel though it seems, _Captain_ Sparrow, the connections with our investors within the slave market were not to be severed, especially not by the likes of you or those creatures. So, let me make this clear to you, we do not, under any circumstance, release our cargo until it has reached its proper destination. Is that understood?"

"Inescapably, but you fail to realize, Mr. Beckett, that I no longer answer to you."

The young man paused; biting his lip. A darkly dressed man grabbed him tightly by the shoulder, visibly gritting his teeth.

"Your father wouldn't approve of your recent business_ endeavors_," Jack said.

"My father is dead, Jack. And I am sure that he would be overjoyed to see how successfully lucrative his son has become."

Mercer forcefully pulled Jack down in a small wooden chair as Beckett pulled out one of the numerous pokers from the pit of his fireplace. He held it up, slightly tilting his head toward Jack as he revealed a smoldering letter "P" to his young prisoner.

"However, I believe that your father would know a thing or two about this symbol. In fact, I believe he would tell you how much it burns and pains him into hiding to this very day. You see, Jack, this is a symbol of banishment from the thoughts and ideas of mankind, and now I have the right to use it as a force against those who rival justice."

Jack began to panic, realizing it was the same pirate brand that his father possessed. His life, reputation and career he had worked so hard to achieve would be in shambles as soon as the scorching poker ignited his flesh.

"Mr. Mercer, it appears that our good friend Jack Sparrow does not comprehend the gravity of his actions. Perhaps, we should grant him a lesson in good business."

"Perhaps, he will benefit from it, sir," Mercer said with a sinister smile.

"You see, Captain Sparrow, according to the Social Contract of our age - robbery on the high seas, which is exactly what you did, and the taking of property from others by open violence is an act of piracy."

"The Social Contract is nothing more or less than a vast conspiracy of human beings lying and cheating themselves and one another for your idea of a general good," Jack said, attempting to escape Mercer's grasp.

"Is it, Captain Sparrow? In a few moments, almost everything you've done to achieve an ounce of grandeur will be insignificant. You see, Jack, the truth that many people never understand, until it is too late, is that the more you try to avoid suffering the more you do, in fact, suffer."

For a fraction of a second, he could feel the heat of the poker before it touched his skin. His heart raced as the moments passed, instinctively wishing to draw himself back from the flame, realizing that his efforts were futile when a sickly sweet smell of burning flesh saturated his nostrils. Mercer had placed a gag around his mouth, tying it tightly around his head.

"You've forgotten your place, Jack. Now the world will forget about you," he said, turning to Mercer once he had finished the branding. "Dispose of him, society will finish the job."

"And if he returns, sir?"

"Returns? That is if anything is left of him, Mr. Mercer. May I remind you, that the world we live in is unkind, so how are we to disturb its delicate balance? Things would be far more interesting if he does," he said, taking a seat behind his desk. "Now, get rid of him, I have a meeting with Captain James Lancaster at four o'clock and I'd prefer a more pleasant atmosphere."

---


End file.
